King Among the Dead - Lauren Gilley Page 0,2
asked.
“Yes.” And she did. Across the room, past the corpse of her foster mother. Up the stairs, and out into the street, behind Simon Becket, and out of her old life forever.
TWO
His friends used to call him Beck, he told her, though he didn’t really have any of those left, but she was welcome to use the nickname. His house, when they reached it, loomed tall and sinister up out of the shadows, a dark-painted, three-story Gothic townhouse in a line of others not quite like it. He had a tall iron gate that he opened with a key – one on a ring full of many, another of which he used to unlock the front door.
A long hall with rooms opening off on both sides. Rose had the impression of dark wood paneling, and furniture with curved legs; rows of bookshelves and, when lightning flashed outside, mounted animal heads on the walls. Things with horns and tusks and black glass eyes.
Only a few lamps burned, and those dim, energy-conserving. He flipped a few more on when they reached the kitchen: a low, timbered-ceilinged space with brick floors, wood cabinets, and a fireplace at one end. Everything had the air of being old, almost shabby, but well-loved; nothing broken or falling-down.
Beck made tea: a quiet, comfortable sort of bustling about. And it was only when he slid a chipped blue mug across the island to her that she realized she was standing mute in the center of the room, fingers knotted together, wondering if she ought to be frightened, or give in to the greater, stranger urge to feel comforted by these circumstances, and the company in which she’d found herself – quite suddenly and impossibly.
She stepped forward, and took the cup in both hands, savoring the warmth that seeped through the porcelain. “Thank you.” She didn’t just mean about the tea.
Beck dipped his head in a deep nod, and she thought he understood. “So. Rose.” He poured himself a cup and added several spoonfuls of sugar from the bowl. “How long were you with Tabby?”
The tea was earthy, and almost too sweet, and wonderful. “Four years.”
“And how many years has it been since you aged out of the system?” When her brows went up, he said, “I have a sense for these things.”
“A year.”
He nodded. “Well, then. You’re a free woman. Free to go wherever you want, and do whatever you’d like.”
She’d never considered such a thing. It terrified her, honestly.
Warmth touched her hand, and she realized she was trembling so badly that she’d slopped tea out of her mug. She set it down with a harsh breath.
“That’s a lot to realize all at once,” he said, voice still low, silky, soothing. “You don’t have to make any decisions yet. I have spare rooms.”
“Oh.” Her pulse gave a hard little bump. “Oh, well, I don’t want to bother you.”
He met her gaze, and again his arrested her. Deep-set eyes, clear, and so very alive. They fairly sparked, though his posture spoke of calm rationale. “It’s no bother. I have the room. And company is nice.” He paused. “The right sort of company.”
Rose thought of Miss Tabitha’s blood. Its path across the table, and down the front of the rumpled old dress. It still freckled Beck’s nose and cheeks; small, dark dots like true freckles in the low light.
Thought of the still-healing welts on her own back. Of the bruised fingers. Of the hours spent in that pie safe – overnight, once, hours and hours, until she’d grown so frightened she beat against the walls of it and a staggering, sour-breathed Miss Tabitha finally unlocked it.
She took a steadying breath and reached for her tea again. “I think so, too.”
He smiled, then, flashing canines sharp as fangs. “It’s nice that we agree.”
~*~
When her stomach rumbled, he pulled the makings of sandwiches from the fridge: thin, marbled ham, and swiss cheese, and thick, salty pickle wedges, all on seed-topped bread that he said he’d made himself. Rose offered to help, but he waved her off, and she was trembling with leftover nerves. She climbed onto a stool at the counter and watched him work; his long, golden fingers moving deftly as he assembled sandwiches, slicing them both on the bias with a flourish that twirled the knife in his hand.
A clean, bright knife, winking in the lamplight.
“What did you use?” she asked, when curiosity proved too strong.
He slid a plate in front of her with tawny brows lifted in question. Thunder